


The Succession

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Destiny, Dub-con elements, Guilt, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Past Mind Control, Porn With Plot, Secret Relationship, Shame, Simpleton!Arthur, Simulated sleep sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Southrons have been defeated, Camelot is recovering nicely, and the time of Albion is nigh. But Merlin can't get over what almost happened that night in the forest, and Arthur still hasn't taken a wife. </p><p>
  <i>Canon era AU set after S4 (divergent from 412)</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Succession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merlin Holidays Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Merlin+Holidays+Community).



> For the Merlin Holidays Community
> 
> Because I am a naughty, greedy elf, I grabbed handfuls of various things from a prompt for canon era guilty attraction and UST resolved with porn, ran off cackling to my S5-never-happened corner and this is the thing I have made. I hope you enjoy the thing. Happy Holidays! Many thanks to the fest mods, to Alby Mangroves and the Merlin Writers Community for the moral support, and to Mizufae for that plus the speedy beta.

_"Sorry, Merlin. I was just trying to get comfortable. It's been an odd day. Very blurry, and these trousers are far too… oh. Am I being rude again? I am, aren't I? Shall I take care of you first? I'm happy to do it. It would be my pleasure."_

Merlin woke slowly, mouth dry and eyes sticky, cock rubbing against the thin, lumpy mattress. He rolled over, snaked a hand down between his legs and told himself it was early yet. He had time. Then he remembered who – and what – he'd been dreaming about, and shot out of bed like a bolt.

His cock wilted soon enough, but his guilt surged, and his magic – it positively _itched._ He mended a towering stack of ravaged books, recopied the report on farms, roads, and bridges (minus the cross-outs and spilt ink), and burned the original in a flashy shower of sparks, all before fetching Arthur's breakfast.

Even so, the bread wasn't out yet. Cook glared him over to a stool in the corner, told him to keep well clear if he didn't want to lose a finger. The kitchen maids were kinder, slipping him sympathetic looks and a bowl of hot broth, asking was it true the crops were recovering from the witch's blight. 

Merlin had been away nine days with a small group of knights, ostensibly to check on the outlying farms, at night sowing his magic deep into the land. Morgana and her Southrons had broken a great many things during her brief reign. Some days it felt like they'd all go to their graves fixing them, but the truth was that books and crops and roads – even the very foundations of the castle itself – were no great challenge. What kept him up nights, freighted with worry, were the things he couldn't touch: broken promises; broken hearts; the boundaries between him and Arthur that, while not exactly broken, had now shifted beyond all recognition. 

And what kept him _up_ nights, randy and witless as a stag in its rut, were the dreams that took the threads of this shifting landscape and spun them into fancies worthy of Gwaine's tavern tales or Geoffrey's not-so-secret collection of erotic woodcuts.

Merlin clutched the worn wooden bowl, inhaling the fragrant steam.

"Yes," he said, grateful for this moment of normalcy – grateful, at least, not to have to begin the day with a lie. "I reckon even I'll be fat by midwinter. Have to start wearing the king's castoffs." 

They went away laughing, calling him the "royal scarecrow" after the gaunt, raggedy children who took to the fields armed with stones. Even Cook unbent her scowl at the news, and for a moment Merlin forgot the itch in his palms and the dull, nagging sense of unease.

* * *

Merlin looked up and down the corridor before using magic to silently open the door and muffle the sound of its closing. It was part habit, part courtesy to Arthur – who had, for now, urged discretion where his magic was concerned – and part something more base. More selfish. If he had to name it, he'd say he craved the sight of Arthur in that time between deep sleep and waking, when he belonged only to himself. Merlin could watch him freely, then, could almost forgive himself for his sins.

Fingers of bright sunshine pushed at the heavy drapes, bringing the promise of a fine day, but Arthur's chambers were still cool. Still quiet. The man himself was burrowed in on his side, nothing but a mop of hair and a series of lumps under the bedclothes. He appeared to be clutching a pillow. 

Merlin watched him for a long, aching moment – decidedly not remembering what it felt like to be that pillow – before turning away. He set breakfast out as quietly as he could, then moved on to the drapes. Dust motes swirled round his face as he pulled them aside. If he wanted to, he knew, he could really _look_ and see each particle, what it was and where it had come from: bits of pollen and wool and crumbling leather, as varied as snowflakes. There would be stone dust, too, and wood ash, flecks of Arthur's skin.

Most of the time, though, Merlin preferred not to use his magic to look. It was hard enough knowing how to breathe around Arthur these days without the thought of literally breathing him in.

Arthur stirred and let out one of those sleepy half-groan, half-sighs that told Merlin he had his work cut out for him, especially if he wanted approval on the report before training. He turned, hands on hips, a chirpy greeting perched on the tip of his tongue. He had a ready boot to follow it up, too, but something made him pause. 

_What?_

The light caressed Arthur's swaddled shoulders, picked out the gold in his hair and glinted off Excalibur's hilt. Arthur was loath to part with the sword, even in sleep, and kept it propped by his bed. He thought Arthur might well have taken it _into_ his bed if Merlin hadn't made that crack about marrying it.

Merlin watched the eddies of dust settle, the slow rise and fall of – 

_There._

A pause. A hitch. A stillness that was so vibrant it practically sang out that Arthur was waking, that soon he would be aware of Merlin's presence in the room.

He watched the pulse thrumming in Arthur's neck, the only skin on display. He really _looked_ at it and saw the moment it sped up. Then he noticed the slight tremor in the bedclothes – the restless shift of hips, the press of thighs – and could imagine, only too well, what had caused it. 

Banked arousal flared to life, something hot and needy licking up low in Merlin's belly. He closed his eyes, struggling for control, but his dreams gripped him still, and the memories… they came on at a gallop.

Other mornings, not so cool and not so quiet, but filled with the clatter of steel on wood and the dazzle of sunlight on a crooked smile; sweat and dirt and the steaming baths that came after, Arthur's skin boiled pink and his hair clinging wet and dark where it grew thickest (his eyes clinging wet and dark to the rim of the tub or the cloth in his hand, but never, ever, to Merlin); then there were the times when Arthur _did_ look, watching Merlin's comings and goings in a curious, weighted manner that made his pulse race and his ears feel warm. 

And the nights.

Nights when Arthur's glances felt like the lash, when he was sour with wine and loss and the wrong word or pillow could be dangerous; nights when undressing him was more of a sparring session than anything else, and Merlin was never clear of the stakes, nor who'd really won. 

But no night was more memorable than the one Merlin needed to forget: the night he'd found himself fleeing into the woods with an Arthur who'd been a puppet of himself, confused, easily led, and eager to please.

 _"Whatever you say,"_ he'd said. _"I'm entirely in your hands. Just point me in the right direction."_

That night was the worm infecting Merlin's dreams, the shade to all of his and Arthur's waking encounters.

And how could it not be? Fantasy was one thing, easily walled off or dulled by years of hopeless yearning, but Merlin now had vivid flesh-memories of Arthur's guileless smile, his wide-eyed apologies, clumsy feet and roving hands and _oh gods_ the whole willing animal _meat_ of him fumbling to loose his cock there by the fire, then fumbling for Merlin, trying to explain how nice it felt, how this was another thing he could do for him to show his respect, just like rinsing the bowls and rubbing down the horses.

_"You said it yourself, Merlin. Why wait? Let me show you how good I can be. How hard I can try."_

Arthur had been _right there,_ so trusting, so undeniably aroused, the thick ridge of his cock plainly visible in the snug peasant's trousers and the wet, ruddy head of it poking out the top, temporarily forgotten in his quest to try and get his hands on Merlin. 

Merlin had been hard too, painfully so, but mostly he'd been wretched because it had been a warped shade of one of his deepest-held desires, one he'd convinced himself Arthur must never know, lest it lead to pity or revulsion – or worse, _distrust._

Yes, he'd heard that "half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole," speech more times than he cared to, but Arthur didn't have to hate someone to banish them from his sight – quite the opposite, actually – and though Kilgharrah had never broached the subject of intimate relations (thank the gods), Merlin had pretty much worked out on his own that this destiny of theirs didn’t extend to the bedchambers. 

No matter what he and Arthur accomplished together, Merlin was convinced he was going to wind up alone, complete with a sore heart, cold bed, and unspeakable blisters.

"Mrrhrm," Arthur hummed.

Merlin's eyes flew open. 

Arthur had shifted again, pushing the bedclothes off one sturdy shoulder and a slab of upper back. And there, again, was the slight movement below the waist, the slow squirm of haunch beneath the linen. Merlin swallowed and backed away. One step, then two, then – _wallwallwall._

Mouth dry and cheeks aflame, Merlin turned to go. Breakfast could wait. The roads and bridges could wait. In fact, morning itself could bloody well wait until he'd got hold of himself – _no, no, not helping_ – until the air wasn't fighting his lungs and Arthur was awake, properly awake, not just lying there, sleep-mussed and cock-addled, acting like he was waiting for…

_Go. Run. Now. This has nothing to do with you. He's probably been dreaming of Gwen._

"Mmrln," Arthur mumbled. More than a hum, less than a name, it made Merlin freeze in his tracks. It made him turn and look, and then he could not look away. 

Arthur stretched ostentatiously, like a cat. His eyes remained closed, but he yawned widely, flinging the bedclothes aside. He settled on his back, smacking his lips, giving another sleepy, murmuring sigh that might have been a name or a question or nothing at all. 

He was now bare to his waist, and Merlin could see the rolled edge of an old pair of braies peeping out above the tangled linens. They were clinging onto his hips for dear life. 

Merlin knew he could have them down with one flash of his eyes, off with a flick of his wrist. Knew all he need do was pair thought with intent and, with a snap of cord and whisper-light slide of fabric, all that sturdy haunch would be exposed and Arthur's chubby, flustered cock would spring free, red against the white linens.

Merlin's own cock surged up in sympathy for the image. He blinked, thinking, _maybe just this once._ He didn't even have to use magic. His hands were made of ordinary sinew and bone like anyone else's. They could perform ordinary transgressions. 

It wasn't something Arthur had ever asked of him while in his right mind, but Merlin knew other nobles used their servants so. If he was fully awake, as Merlin suspected, and didn’t want the relief, he could always stop him. He could play it up as a bawdy joke, a bet lost at the tavern. It would be mortifying, but not fatal, for surely the great and powerful Emrys wasn't destined to die of shame in a man's bed. Even if that man was the Once and Future King. 

But if Arthur wasn't fully awake, or if he _was_ and wanted to pretend otherwise…

Merlin fled.

* * *

He stumbled past guards and other servants, moving awkwardly, half-hunched over. He was almost glad of the discomfort, of the guards' laughter and jeers. He knew he deserved much worse, because thinking about touching Arthur as he lay asleep – or feigning it – should have been abhorrent, but it wasn't. For a sleeping Arthur, like an enchanted Arthur, gave Merlin's fantasies the air of the distinctly possible.

Asleep, they would never have to talk about Gwen or heirs, about all the lies and betrayals or the awkward fact that Arthur knew, now, that the man who emptied his chamber pot and lanced his blisters could just as easily summon the Great Dragon that had once nearly destroyed his city.

Merlin ran up steps and along corridors until he found one that was deserted. He ducked into an alcove and began fisting his cock roughly through his clothes. It was uncomfortably dry, but he didn’t even consider stopping. He pressed his forehead to the cool stone, brought his free arm up and bit down on his sleeve.

Only then did he give in and let the fantasy spool out: Arthur's cock fat and fine in his hand, the skin there supple as silk. It would smell of him strongly, be sweat-damp from spending the night nestled between his thighs. Merlin could take all the time he wanted with it. First he'd squeeze it, pet it, roll it between his palms like Gaius inspecting a sore wrist. 

"So hot," he'd whisper, pressing a finger over its little gape, gathering the fluid there and wetting his own lips with it. "So swollen. What to do?"

Arthur would try to keep still, but his hips would give him away – squirming for leverage, pushing into Merlin's hands. His steady breathing would falter and strain. But he'd have no choice; he'd have to accept Merlin's pacing and Merlin's whims unless he was prepared to acknowledge what was happening, to acknowledge _Merlin_ and beg for a specific relief the way he had that night in the forest. 

He'd begged so endearingly too, not whining but simply puzzled as to why Merlin kept pushing him away.

_"Please, Merlin, it's still so hot. So swollen. Could I not just… rub against you a little? You don't have to lift a finger, and I'll be very careful not to stain your trousers. I'm used to spending in my hand."_

Merlin bit down hard as he came, knew that he'd find marks on his wrist later, even through the leather and linen. He avoided Arthur for the remainder of the day, begging Gaius for errands that would take him far from the citadel.

* * *

Dinner was an impromptu celebration of the news that there would be wheat by Lammas after all, that no one would starve come winter. Arthur was jovial enough to his guests at table – as jovial as he ever got these days – but he ate and drank sparingly, and Merlin could tell something was troubling him.

Merlin's first assumption, given the people's welfare was assured, was that it was a matter of the heart. 

_"I look for her in the room and she's not there,"_ Arthur had said that fateful night. _"Then I remember why."_

But _this_ night Gwen was most definitely in the room – looking radiant in one of her new gowns, too – and Arthur paid her no more or less attention than he did any of his other advisors. In fact, he seemed content for her and Leon to put their heads together over cups of wine and get lost in the minutiae of the on-going restocking of the royal armoury. His expression as his eyes rested on them was fond, perhaps a bit sad, but not that of a jealous lover. 

Not for the first time, Merlin longed to know what words had passed between them since Ealdor. He'd witnessed their embrace, been glad of it in the bone-deep destiny sense of things, because he knew Arthur needed Gwen, but he'd felt the sting of it, too – and keenly – coming so soon after the simple Arthur's advances in the forest.

He'd watched them closely as he dared in the days and weeks that followed, but there'd been no announcement beyond Arthur's terse, _"Guinevere will be staying in Camelot and joining my council. See to it she has everything she needs."_

All he'd got out of Gwen was a gentle, but firm, _"Leave it, Merlin. We must look to the future now."_

Still, Merlin couldn't help but hear the court gossip. The only reason a king would raise a maidservant so, they reasoned, was if he'd plans to marry her. And if not her, then someone, surely. The king needed sons. The succession must be clear; the throne of Camelot must never be left so vulnerable again.

"Merlin."

Merlin startled at Arthur's voice so near his ear, nearly slopping wine all down his front. He clutched the jug to his chest as Arthur's hand landed heavily on his shoulder and spun him about, guiding him towards the small door at the top of the hall.

"You're half asleep. Did you even see your pillow last night?" He leaned in. "Or did you head straight for the tavern upon your return, bribe George to take your morning duties, hmm?"

Merlin ducked his head, cheeks warming. "No, sire. I – "

Just then the door opened. The guard outside gave a mute signal that must have meant something to Arthur, for he abruptly pulled away, and Merlin was left wondering whether or not he'd imagined the brief squeeze at his shoulder, the gust of warm breath at his ear. 

"Save your excuses. Elyan's party has returned." Arthur ducked through the door and looked back, nodding towards the wine jug. "Give that to George. Tell him to water it well and attend us in the small council chamber, then it's straight to your tower, understood?"

Merlin smiled stiffly and nodded for the guard's sake, but he followed Arthur out into the corridor. As soon as they'd turned the corner, he fell into step beside him, muttering, "I am fine, my lord. I need no rest, and I prefer to attend you myself, especially if it's to do with the Druids."

Arthur snorted. "Rest? Who said anything about rest?"

Again startled, Merlin looked over, and his heart clenched at Arthur's expression. It was too similar to the one he'd worn in the caves and at the stone, to the one he'd given Merlin across countless campfires and – especially – the night before they'd retaken the castle, when he'd loudly bemoaned their lack of a power to counter Morgana's.

 _I see you,_ it said. _I see you and I know. But I don't know how…_

Merlin wondered if it would ever become any easier for Arthur to acknowledge his magic, to properly _ask_ for all he was offering.

Arthur shook his head slowly. "I wish I could grant you that, Merlin – I, more than most, know how much you deserve it – but I'm afraid I can't just now. If Elyan's succeeded, Camelot will be hosting something quite special come Lammas. I'll need everything you and Gaius have on Druid harvest rites."

Merlin didn’t realise he'd stopped in his tracks until he saw Arthur looking back over his shoulder, quizzical, impatient.

"Merlin?"

"Druid rites." Strangling the jug with one arm, Merlin gestured at the floor beneath his feet. "The Druids here, in Camelot. Openly."

Arthur shrugged. "I don’t see why not. You said it yourself: after what Morgana did, we can't simply tell the people that magic can be used for good; we have to show them. And I can hardly give them _you,_ now can I?"

His tone was light enough. His gaze, however, was anything but as he looked Merlin up and down. Merlin felt the weight of his eyes, not dismissive, not approving, just… intense. Just _there._

Then Arthur was striding away down the corridor.

Merlin blinked. He sucked in a breath and found his voice. "And why is that, sire?" he called out.

He half-expected to be ignored for his cheek or, if not, given Arthur's version of the teasing Merlin heard in the kitchens, that he was merely a servant, and a shabby one, too.

He did not expect Arthur to wheel round, a thundercloud for a countenance. He did not expect him to advance, fists clenched, until the tips of their boots were just shy of meeting, and say, "Because, _Emrys,_ it's too easy for you. You'd terrify them. They'd either attack or flee… or fall at your feet."

His eyes roved over Merlin's face – a hint of anguish there beneath the steel – and Merlin swallowed audibly. He could smell strawberries on Arthur's breath, hints of roasting spices and sour new wine. The clasps on his cloak were digging into the skin of his throat. Merlin longed to tear them away and replace them with his thumbs, with his tongue…

"No matter where I send you, what task I set, I receive reports with tales of miracles, mysterious good fortune. And this is you being subtle, isn’t it? Gaius tells me your powers are likely far beyond our imagining."

"But all for you," Merlin whispered. He lowered his eyes, restraining himself from plucking at Arthur's vambrace. For all he accepted, even loved, the pomp of Arthur's station, there were times when he longed to peel it away, to find the Arthur who'd rubbed his bare feet in a servant's face and talked of running off to work a bit of land. 

And he wanted Arthur to find him, too – a humble man, vexed by the desires of his flesh and responsibilities of his station, same as any other. Yes, Merlin had longed for a bit more gratitude and a warmer coat, but he'd never wanted to hear that blasted Druid name fall from those proud lips. Not once.

"For Albion. Arthur, I've told you. I'm happy to serve you. I'd never – "

Merlin gasped as Arthur caught his wrist in a bruising grip. He glanced up, anger punching through the arousal. But he didn’t pull away.

"Sometimes," Arthur said, lifting Merlin's arm – his fingers forced so near Arthur's lips that for a mad moment Merlin thought he might kiss them, bite them, suck them into his mouth, and his belly seized with _yes, please yes._

"Sometimes, Merlin, people need something a little more ordinary. Something they can hold in their fist. Something they can rely on not to disappear come morning." 

And with that he clapped Merlin's hand back onto the wine jug, turned, and walked away, leaving Merlin stewing in his own nervous sweat and more confused than ever.

* * *

Merlin suffered a further week of his body betraying him – a week of waking to cold, congealing spendings, of furtive self-touching in too-public places and dozing off while on duty – before deciding enough was enough, that he'd be no use to anyone's destiny half-mad on longing and lack of sleep.

He tried volunteering for the next envoy mission in the hope that several long days in the saddle might cure him, but Arthur only laughed. At first. When he saw Merlin was serious, his smiled faded. 

"Don’t be ridiculous," he snapped. "It's to Caerleon, which you'd know if you'd been listening instead of drooling into your neckerchief during council. Annis thinks you a fool. Would you sabotage this new Albion before it's half-formed?"

"Of course not." Merlin set the jug down with more force than he'd meant to, and a gout of water sloshed over the rim, landing on Arthur's parchment and turning a fresh, glistening "T" into a grey puddle. "Whoops. Here."

Slowly, Arthur lowered his quill and settled back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Well then," he said, eyes tracking Merlin's hands as he used magic to siphon the mixed ink and water from the parchment, separate the two, and deposit them back in their original containers. Merlin saw his nostrils flare with a sudden, indrawn breath.

"Well then," he repeated. "What is it, Merlin? What aren't you telling me this time?"

"Nothing. It's just… It's as you say, sire. I thought I might be of use, but wasn't paying attention. Haven't been getting enough sleep."

Arthur huffed. "You've been sleeping all over the castle, from what I've seen. And heard. Elyan and I thought a pig had got into the armoury this morning. An angry one. You should ask Gaius if that's – "

A smart rap on the door interrupted Arthur's speech – George and a small parade of servants bearing water for Arthur's bath – so Merlin was spared any further commentary on his snoring. He stayed just long enough after they'd left to heat the water and turn down the bedclothes while Arthur finished undressing.

"Goodnight," he called, one hand already on the door. "If there's nothing else, I'll – "

"Merlin? Wait. I haven't – _Damn!_ "

There was an uncomfortable sounding _thunk_ from behind the screen. Any decent servant would have immediately rushed over, but Merlin kept his eyes firmly fixed on the solid oak and iron fittings before him.

"Everything all right, my lord?"

There was a long silence. Merlin's fingers grew tense against the wood. He clenched his other hand at his side, trying not to imagine Arthur with his braies down around his ankles and his shirt hanging off one shoulder, his hair ruffled up into a messy haystack. Trying not to imagine a fresh bruise blooming on that cherished skin or what it would feel like to soothe it, not with salve, but with lips and tongue, tasting the salt sweat and – with it – Arthur himself, no longer masked by all the scents that clung to his clothing.

He thought he detected a sigh, but couldn’t be sure with all the blood that was rushing through his ears, heading south, whispering _stay and watch… or stay and help him wash, at least, if you still call yourself his manservant._

"Yes, Merlin," Arthur replied at last. He sounded more resigned than bitter, which only increased Merlin's guilt. "I am a hardened warrior, am I not? What have I to fear from an iron sconce and a tub of hot water?"

 _You'd be surprised,_ Merlin thought, but all he said was, "Concussion and the loss of your royal stench, sire?" and left before he broke down and, in his exhaustion, confessed how fond he was of the latter.

* * *

Merlin was up before dawn again, but this time with a purpose other than rinsing his blanket. He was mired in bundles of dried herbs, growing increasingly frantic, by the time Gaius' snores halted.

"Gaius!"

There was a hearty cough, followed by a rasped, "Good morning." 

"Valerian?" Merlin rose from the bench to fetch Gaius a cup of water. 

"I beg your pardon. I'm not _that_ poorly."

"No, I meant – " Merlin helped him sit up and pressed the cup into his hands. "Where is it?"

Gaius blinked as he took a sip. "Is this for an infusion or a salve?"

"Infusion."

"You'll want fresh then, and remember not to let it boil fully."

Merlin swore under his breath. His only hope of completing the potion before nightfall was to get the valerian steeping before Arthur woke. Now he'd have to make some excuse to nip off to the woods amidst all his other duties and – worse – would have to spend another night dreaming of Arthur's fat cock and warm, eager hands, of his boyish "please" and "thank you" and "I'll do better in future."

He tried not to take his frustration out on the dried stores, but at Gaius' scandalised throat-clearing he gave in and used magic to safely rehang the whole lot and repurpose the cauldron for their morning porridge.

He was nearly finished bolting his down when Gaius paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth, frowned, and said, "Has he changed his mind _again,_ then? That is worrisome."

"Hmm?"

"Arthur."

Merlin tore his mind from Arthur's willing dream-flesh, ruddy red and golden cream turned all the colours of a tapestry in the shadows cast by the fire. He pulled his spoon from his mouth. 

"Arthur what? Were we talking about Arthur?"

Gaius gave him a long-suffering look. "No, Merlin, but that is who the – incredibly powerful, incredibly _dangerous_ – sleeping draught is for, is it not? He sought me out for the same several days back, whilst you were away. For relief from dreams, he said, vivid ones, except... " 

He sucked in his mouthful and jawed it for what seemed an entirely unnecessary amount of time, given it was only porridge, before swallowing. 

"And?" Merlin said.

"In the end he seemed to have more questions than any actual desire for a potion. Said he didn’t want to dull his senses, even at rest."

Merlin dropped his spoon. He was up and pacing before it thunked into the bowl.

"He's… did he? Gaius, what did he say, exactly? This is important. No, don’t bother with the look – just tell me."

"Why, do you suspect some foul play?"

Merlin paused. He leaned down with both hands splayed flat on the table, saying, "Only on his part if he remembers."

Gaius' eyes widened. "Remembers what?"

"That he… ah, never mind." Merlin shook his head. "Please, Gaius. I'll clean the leech tank whenever you like, by hand, no magic whatsoever. Just tell me everything he said, I'm begging you. Word for word."

* * *

The next morning, Merlin again woke too early, cock stiff and muscles cramped with tension. As had become his habit, he worked off some of his restlessness through magic – recopying Arthur's speeches and renewing the protection charms on his training armour – before heading to the kitchens.

There, he received his usual scolding from Cook and teasing indulgence from the kitchen maids. In return for a ripe plum, he offered to lend a hand plucking the capons. But in this, as with everything else, his mind was far from his task, caught up in tortured deliberations over what he'd learnt from Gaius. 

Arthur had been asking if magic could affect dreams, make them more vivid, like actual memories, or allow real voices and sensations to come through. When Gaius had questioned him as to the nature of the latter, he had hemmed and hawed, then blurted out, "Say I've dreamt of… riding. Then when I first wake, I'm very stiff. In the legs. And I don't mind the dream-riding, only I worry that it is affecting my judgement when it comes to the real thing. Do you see?"

Gaius had confessed to being mystified by the entire exchange – in the end, he'd warned Arthur off too much cheese after supper if he did not wish to resort to potions – but Merlin _did_ see. Or at least he feared he might. Cook had to tell him twice that the bread was ready, and even then he doubted he would have heard if she hadn't snatched a half-plucked bird from his grasp and shoved him bodily towards Arthur's breakfast. 

This time, as Merlin approached Arthur's chambers, there was a cowardly part of him that wanted to find Arthur awake – awake and out of bed and, preferably, already dressed. Then there would be no decision for Merlin to make, no cliff to fall over just yet.

He was seized with the sudden memory of waking in the forest to Arthur kicking him, the sharp, jarring pain nothing compared to the bitter relief that flooded his veins at the realisation that Arthur had no memory of his flight from Camelot or their conversation by the fire – nor why Merlin had abandoned its warmth to huddle at the foot of a tree.

He'd been _so close_ to giving in, ashamed by how much he'd wanted to, even if it was only for one night and with an Arthur lacking such a great part of that which made him… well, _Arthur._

But Arthur was under no such enchantment this morning, nor was he conveniently awake. He was on his left side, as usual. He'd flung the bedclothes off his torso in the night – presumably too hot – and his mouth gaped obscenely against the white pillow. The knuckles of his right hand were mashed against it, and as Merlin watched his tongue slid out and his lips moved as if he were a suckling at its mother's teat.

Suddenly the air in the room went from too warm and a bit stifling to not there at all.

Heedless, Merlin set the tray down on the first flat surface that presented itself. He tossed Arthur's speeches in the same general direction and waved a hand to bolt the door behind him. Before he'd fully made the conscious decision to, he found himself standing beside the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of Arthur's back.

He stood for a long moment, trying to match his own breathing to that rhythm before daring to whisper, "Arthur?"

Arthur let out a wet, plaintive-sounding huff. Then his right leg came up, his hips began a slow rolling motion beneath the bedclothes, and Merlin had to stuff his knuckles in his own mouth to keep himself from crying out.

 _Oh gods,_ he thought. _Why not, then? If he's taken no measure to silence the dreams; if his body so clearly remembers what his mind does not, and I'm happy to be used?_

With trembling hands, Merlin discarded belt and boots on the floor beside Excalibur. He kept his eyes trained on Arthur, so he saw the exact moment he heard, the exact moment Arthur _knew_ with a huntsman's or a warrior's instinct that something had changed – that someone had drawn near, but not in a way they ever had before. There was that same tell-tale pause, Arthur going perfectly, alarmingly still for a moment before his steady breathing resumed. 

Merlin set one hand on the bed, followed by a knee. There he waited, either to be stopped or for the courage to continue, he didn’t know. Up close, he could see the sweat drying on Arthur's skin, the damp ends of his hair and a sprinkling of clogged pores between his shoulder blades. His old scars had turned white and puckered; the fresh were still angry red grimaces or shiny patches of pink. Merlin knew how most of them had been earned, and told himself that it wasn't right for a man to be so alone, to go untouched just because he had a grand destiny.

He told himself that he was only thinking of Arthur in this, not of himself.

He told himself that he was a filthy, incorrigible liar, but it didn’t mean he was going to stop.

Slowly, he shifted his full weight onto the bed. When Arthur did not protest, Merlin lifted the bedclothes and slid in behind him. He tucked his thighs beneath Arthur's, bowed his head and tentatively rested his forehead against the back of his neck. 

"Arthur?" he whispered again, closing his eyes, breathing in Arthur's cloistered morning scent and not knowing for the life of him what he would do if he were pushed away now. 

There was a long moment where Arthur remained still. Then, with a sharp inhale, his hips began to move once more, shallow thrusts whose purpose could not be mistaken. Even through his trousers, Merlin could feel the powerful, controlled flex of Arthur's thighs, the heat of his skin. Biting his lip, he pressed closer, moulding himself along Arthur's back – and then there was no possible return to innocence, no room for denial, for surely Arthur could feel how hard he was, how Merlin had to reach down and adjust himself so he wasn't ramming him somewhere uncomfortable.

With no warning, Arthur gave up the pretence of sleep, reaching back to grope for Merlin's hand. When he found it, he entwined their fingers and squeezed almost tenderly before pulling it round his front and crushing Merlin's palm against the meat of his belly.

Merlin took a ragged breath, waiting for his heart to stop trying to escape his chest. As soon as he dared, he extracted his hand and slid it lower, over the loose roll of fabric at Arthur's hips. He tensed at this, and Merlin, fearing questions he wasn't ready to answer – or worse, some ridiculous, noble protest – buried his face in Arthur's hair. 

He mouthed at the downy skin behind his ear, whispering, "Please. Let me touch you, take care of you, just like this. I want to. _Gods,_ Arthur, how I want to. I… It would be my pleasure."

Arthur said nothing, but the next thing Merlin knew both his hands were covering Merlin's, guiding it to the knot securing his braies. It took some fumbling before it was unpicked and the cord yanked loose; then, before Merlin could slip his hand inside, Arthur pulled away. He propped himself on one elbow, pushing the linen garment down his thighs and struggling to kick it off beneath the bedclothes. 

For a moment, Merlin could only stare and paw ineffectually at all the bunching muscles and newly-revealed skin. Then Arthur was entirely, gloriously naked. 

Then he was pushing back against Merlin, settling in, hips moving in a manner that Merlin would have called arrogant and impatient if hips could even _be_ arrogant and impatient and he finally remembered what he'd been trying to do from the start, which was to – _oh yes, skin supple as silk_ – get his hand on Arthur's stout, sweaty cock.

* * *

Merlin knew Arthur could tug and spend quietly. On longer journeys, when they were sleeping rough amongst the men, Arthur would occasionally see to himself – vigorously, but furtively – in the dead hours just before dawn. Afterwards, he would sleep sweetly while Merlin stared into the gloom with dry eyes and clenched fists, trying not to wonder who Arthur thought of, what pushed him over the edge.

The fact that Arthur was _not_ bothered about being quiet now – despite the fact that he had not uttered a word and for all intents and purposes had not formally acknowledged that it was _Merlin's_ hand grasping stroking squeezing tugging the meat between his legs and _Merlin's_ clothed cock desperately frotting into the bared cleft of his arse – was Merlin's undoing.

Arthur panted. Arthur grunted. Arthur _moaned._ Arthur made a broken, impatient noise in the back of his throat whenever Merlin slowed the pace or let go in order to change his grip. 

Merlin honestly had no idea if Arthur was planning to banish him after this or add bedwarming to his already long list of duties, but he did know that if this was going to be his only chance to know Arthur like this, then he wanted to know _everything._

He wanted to know the heft of Arthur's balls and how that thick, springy hair would feel against his face. He wanted to know if he was as single-minded in bed as he was in battle or showed his more generous side, if he liked things rough or sweet, if there was any hint of the simpleton's boyish, eager delight in his own body and its desires or if they half-terrified him the way they did Merlin.

But when Arthur made such _sounds,_ Merlin couldn't deny him. He couldn’t slow down and pay attention properly; he could hardly think. His hips and hands took on a life of their own, working to keep the pleased animal noises spilling from Arthur's lips and his body straining into the awkward embrace.

Arthur came with a snap of his hips and a guttural cry, a joyous, explosive, almost surprised-sounding "Ah!" that Merlin wished he could catch and keep – a favour clutched in a hot hand or placed under a pillow. He would pull it out on lonely nights and think of… well, of this: warm, ropey seed making a slick mess of his hand and Arthur's heaving belly and how, when he started to pull away, Arthur practically _growled_ and thrust back against him, clutching at his wrist, his arm, his thigh, urging him to "Come _on"_ and "Yes, that's it, Merlin" in a voice that was so like the one he used on his favourite mounts Merlin's release surged up and crashed over him in a giddy wave. 

Gasping, spent, he chuckled into the back of Arthur's neck. "I'm not your horse, you know."

"Thank the stars for that," came the eventual reply. "I'd turn up late for my own battles. Facing the wrong way round, too, most like."

Arthur rolled over in a sudden flurry of limbs and twisted linens. It startled Merlin who, dazed and boneless and thus apparently more spatially challenged than usual, scooted out of the way only to find himself flopping on the floor like a landed fish, one hand still wet with Arthur's spendings and a dark, sticky patch showing plain on the front of his trousers. 

"Merlin?" Arthur peered down at him. His eyes were bright, his cheeks and chest flushed a telling shade of red. Whatever he saw deepened the blush, and he flashed Merlin a toothy grin.

"I rest my case. What's for breakfast?"

Merlin scrambled awkwardly to his feet, limbs still not quite ready to cooperate. He'd hardly expected sweet words and lingering caresses, but he'd at least hoped for a bit more time to catch his breath before moving on to the consequences. Which, at the moment, seemed to be pretending nothing had happened.

"Um, speeches," Merlin said, unable to fully comply with this turn of events – unable to stop staring at Arthur's sex flush, at his pouty nipples and broad chest and the wet, angry-looking tip of his cock, retracting now into its hood. Yes, he'd seen Arthur naked before, but not like this, nothing like _this._ And to think that he'd just…

"To the new recruits and the smiths – oh, and the stonemasons' families. The ones who lost their menfolk at Wye Bridge."

Arthur's face fell. "Right," he muttered, and flopped back on the pillows. 

Merlin could have kicked himself for his lack of tact. He tore his gaze from Arthur, wiped his hand off on his trousers and tugged his tunic down to hide the worst of the mess.

"Fresh white bread and cheese," he amended, locating the tray he'd abandoned amidst Arthur's collection of ancient jousting helms and bringing it over to the table. "Honey. Grapes. Quail eggs."

Arthur sat up, pinching the bridge of his nose. His hair was sticking up every which way, but it looked wrong instead of charming because all the warmth and boyishness was gone, hidden behind a furrowed brow and hunched shoulders. He waved a hand in Merlin's direction. 

"You may go," he said wearily, not meeting Merlin's eyes. "I'll look the speeches over while I eat."

"Oh. But… Won't you need me to – "

"Go, I said!"

Merlin closed his mouth and, head down, headed for the door.

"Wait," Arthur called out. "I – Merlin, wait."

Merlin paused, but he didn’t look back. He could well imagine the exasperated expression, the strong hands running through sweat damp hair and scrubbing across the proud lines of his face.

"I am not angry with you," Arthur said slowly. "Merely… you have reminded me I have much to do today."

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, clutching at the hem of his tunic. "I as well," he replied, as steadily as he could manage. "Finding a fresh pair of trousers, for a start, before I run into Gwaine. And I need to fetch your old breastplate and spaulders."

He heard Arthur's quiet snort. "More of your special enhancements?" 

"Mmm."

"I'll see you in the armoury then, before training."

"Yes, sire." Merlin took a deep breath and, smiling, dared a look back over his shoulder. The sadness he saw in Arthur's eyes, even as he returned the smile, haunted him for the rest of the day.

* * *

It happened several more times like that, in the relative cool of summer mornings, Merlin mostly clothed and Arthur mostly not, the act barely acknowledged other than in the doing of it. It was never prearranged, never alluded to outside Arthur's chambers.

Each time, Arthur feigned sleep (poorly) and Merlin feigned disinterest (also poorly) in the murmurs and rustlings coming from the bedclothes until one of them gave in and voiced the other's name as a quiet question. Then it became a rush of duty abandoned; of boots off, doors bolted and bodies coming together with fumbling, urgent need. 

They never kissed on the mouth, never spoke much beyond the necessities of "harder" and "hurry" and "there, right – _yes_ " but their bodies were eloquent enough. From the moment they came together, Arthur allowed hardly any space between them, tugging Merlin's hands here and there, keeping him tucked close at his back or pinned at his front, the deliberate force and _weight_ of him – then the intensity with which he took pleasure once he'd found an arrangement to his liking – better than any sweet words.

Each time, Arthur ensured that Merlin's needs were seen to – letting him rut against his arse or spend into the iron grip of his fist, Merlin's cock slicked with Arthur's own seed – then sent him on his way. It was never meanly done, but always in a tone that brooked no argument. By the third time, Merlin thought he recognised it for what it was: a mercy, a chance for him to recover his dignity and his wits, as well as some semblance of his normal demeanour around the king. As it was, even hours later Merlin had to be on guard against sniffing at Arthur like a randy tom as he served him at table or letting his hands linger as he fastened his cloak.

Then, one such morning, not but an hour after their encounter, Merlin dashed into the archives on an errand from Gaius only to find Arthur there, up to his ears in dusty volumes and Geoffrey's hand-wringing. He had his stubborn face on – at least until he spotted Merlin – and Merlin didn’t envy Geoffrey trying to explain whatever it was about historical precedents not being the same as accepted custom.

"Merlin!" Arthur half-rose, knocking several scrolls to the ground in a cloud of dust. A flush swiftly spread across his cheeks and his eyes bulged before flitting away, landing on something to Merlin's left. "What on earth are you doing here? You should be with Gaius."

"I am. Was," Merlin stammered. "I mean, I was, sire, but he needed… "

He trailed off, mute with horror as a shaft of light picked out the scalloped edge of a fresh bruise peeping above Arthur's collar. He knew exactly what had made it, and when; Arthur had slipped a hand down the back of Merlin's trousers while he'd been busy riding Arthur's thigh, had curled a thick, insistent finger between his cheeks, rubbing all along the crease there and Merlin had come so hard he'd bit down on the skin he'd been lapping at, trying to swallow Arthur's scent.

"A book, perhaps?" Geoffrey suggested, giving Merlin a look of disdain to rival one of Gaius' best.

"Er, yes." Merlin swallowed. " _Ars Amatoria._ " Now Geoffrey's eyes bulged, and Merlin didn't think he'd ever seen Arthur look so stunned. He went over what he'd just said, realising his mistake. " _Aremorica,_ I mean. _Ars Aremorica,_ the one about the Gauls? Not the poetry about… intimate relations. Yes. So I'll just – " 

Face flaming, he waved a hand towards a distant row of shelves. 

"Of course. Carry on." Arthur gave a stiff, formal nod as he sank back into his seat, then seemed to realise how ridiculous the gesture seemed in what was indisputably Geoffrey's domain, for his own colour deepened. 

Merlin tried to signal for Arthur to adjust his collar as he edged past, but Arthur wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Geoffrey continued to regard him with suspicion, so he waited until Arthur bent to collect the fallen scrolls and used a discreet bit of magic.

He was halfway back to his tower with the tome in question before the full significance of the interaction sank in: Arthur was giving _himself_ time to recover as well. 

Perhaps this was not simply a matter of convenient relief with a trusted friend, then, or – as Merlin had suspected in bleaker moments – a means of reassuring himself that the mighty Emrys was just as fallible, just as earthly as he.

Merlin let this idea roll around in his brain for a time, let it fuel new guilty fantasies which relied less and less on dreams and the simpleton's advances and more on the Arthur that was revealed with each successive tryst. He clung to it selfishly, miserably, whenever envoy parties set out for kingdoms with eligible princesses and the castle grew rife with gossip that this one, this time… 

But the parties only ever returned with young men, noble sons come to be fostered at Arthur's court and fresh recruits come to swell the ranks of Camelot's army. The long, warm days leading up to Lammas saw many a union celebrated, but the king's was not one of them. He continued to give all outward appearance of being content in his solitude, and eventually the bawdy gossip turned to whispers of admiration and pity. 

Some claimed he'd traded his mortal happiness for an invincible sword. Such was his chivalry, others said, that he would choose no woman over any other. Merlin's favourite eye-roller was Cook's intimation that the witch had gelded her brother with magic or caused some other private disfigurement. It brought a smile to his lips every time he reached between Arthur's legs and felt the full and perfect flesh there, thinking, _I would not have let her touch a hair on your head, sire, let alone your balls._

If Merlin wondered at Arthur's true motives, he never asked. He guarded his heart by telling himself that each stolen morning might be their last, that he'd already had more of Arthur than he'd thought possible, and left it at that. He plunged himself into his work, as both official servant and (very) unofficial sorcerer to the king, and did his best to ignore the whispers that came at night, telling him that he was a fool.

* * *

Then, one sweltering morning a few days before the Druids were due to arrive, Merlin slipped into Arthur's chambers to find him standing before the window, staring moodily out into the courtyard. He was wearing nothing but an old shirt that came down to mid-thigh, arms raised and resting against the stone to either side of the open casement. The morning sun showed where the white linen had gone yellow at the armpits and where it clung to his skin, dark with new sweat. It also highlighted the protruding stub of his morning arousal, washed out the shadows beneath his eyes and the rich colour of his lips.

They'd still never kissed, Merlin realised. Not mouth to mouth. He'd pressed his lips to Arthur's neck and chest more times than he could count, buried his face between his shoulder blades or in the shadow of an armpit, the raw smell and taste of him usually enough to tip Merlin over into slack-jawed, shuddering pleasure. But he'd never claimed his mouth – nor properly tasted him below, where his scent was strongest.

Feeling reckless, he kicked the door shut behind him and slid the bolt home with a flash of his eyes. Startled, Arthur turned, dropping his arms.

"You're up early, sire." 

"I hardly slept." Arthur watched Merlin's progress across the room with wary eyes. 

Merlin bundled his breakfast onto the table and went right up to him, raising a hand to his cheek. His eyes widened, nostrils flaring.

"Merlin, wha– "

"Shh," Merlin whispered, leaning in, rubbing nose and lips against Arthur's faint stubble. He didn’t _quite_ dare, wouldn’t presume to join their mouths without some signal from Arthur, but he came very near. He traced Arthur's lower lip with his thumb, kissed the creases off the corners and the soft skin near his eyes. "Bad dreams?" 

Arthur made a strangled, querulous sound, but did not pull away. Merlin smiled against his cheek. 

"I'll take that as a yes, then."

"I didn't say they were bad."

"Oh?" Merlin was suddenly very aware of Arthur's hands – held clenched at his sides as if to avoid reaching for Merlin – and the fat cockhead tenting the thin fabric of his shirt. "Ah, I see."

"Do you?"

"Here." In as dignified a motion as he could manage, Merlin sank to his knees and slid his hands up Arthur's naked thighs. 

_That_ spurred him to action. He staggered back, exclaiming, "No, what? You can't… you don't kneel to me."

Merlin shuffled forward determinedly, catching Arthur around the back of his legs this time so he couldn’t get away. Glancing up, he said, "How else am I meant to take you in my mouth?" 

He didn't think he'd ever seen Arthur look so scandalised, not even at the thought of Gaius reading _Ars Amatoria._

"That's what whores do, camp followers and common – " Arthur jerked as Merlin nuzzled his cheek along the length of his draped cock.

"And lovers," Merlin said, lowering his eyes, already feeling a bit drunk on the smell of Arthur's sex, on the feel of his bare, solid thighs – one in each palm – straining against Merlin's grip. "At least according to Gwaine. And Geoffrey's woodcuts. So unless you don't want – _ow!_ "

Merlin cried out as Arthur grabbed a solid handful of neckerchief and tunic – and what were definitely a few of Merlin's chest hairs – and forced him to his feet, eyes wild.

"Is that what this is to you then? Is that what you think we are, Merlin? Lovers?"

"No," Merlin gasped, struggling to pry Arthur's hand from his clothing. Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"No?"

"Not like… Well, not in the flowers and poetry sense, but we are… something, are we not? We've always been something, and this is just another part of that – _dammit_ Arthur, let go! I know it's not the same for you, but I _want_ this, whatever it is, even if it's just until you marry!"

Arthur paused, mouth open, his angry expression unfolding, one furrow at a time, into one of surprise. Once his grip slackened sufficiently, Merlin stumbled back, knocking into a chair.

"Until I marry," Arthur said flatly.

"Yes," Merlin said, rubbing at his chest, then his hip. "Ow." 

"Until _I_ marry? Merlin, you _idiot._ You're – "

"Yes, _you,_ " Merlin cut in. "Yes, married. Who else? Arthur, I may be an idiot but I'm not stupid. You need heirs, a whole stable full, or it'll be one assassination plot after the other and I, for one, am completely _fed up_ with people trying to kill you!"

"Merlin, your eyes – "

"What?"

A strong wind moved through the room, stirring cloth and rattling the armour mounted on the walls. A rack of antlers teetered and fell, hitting the floor with an ominous crack.

"Oh, I'm… " Merlin blinked, the anger draining out of him along with the discharge of magic. He walked over to examine the smashed trophy. "Arthur, I'm sorry."

Merlin jumped when he felt Arthur's hands on his shoulders. Arthur tugged him back, flush against his chest. Merlin felt his lips graze his ear, a puff of warm air the only warning before he spoke.

"Well, before anyone succumbs to handfasting – or murder – you're going to help me replace that."

Merlin shivered. It was a threat, of that Merlin had no doubt, but Arthur didn’t exactly sound angry, and his erection was still there, mashed hard against Merlin's buttocks. 

And everyone knew such prize stags weren't taken until later in the harvest season, certainly not before the bringing-in festival, which meant Arthur had no intention of marrying this Lammas.

Merlin turned his face slightly, until his cheek bumped into Arthur's nose. 

"You mean you'll force me to go hunting with you, don’t you?"

"Yes. Just the two of us, I think."

"Barbarian."

"Warlock – and a clumsy one, at that."

Merlin huffed but could not argue the point, not with the evidence at his feet. 

Neither of them spoke for a long while. Merlin didn’t know what came next, what Arthur was waiting for. He was so tense at Merlin's back, so hard. Merlin could feel him with every indrawn breath and minute weight shift, his own swelling cock forcing him to adjust his stance, which gave Arthur more room to press _in._ Standing in this position felt even more illicit, more dangerous than lying with Arthur in his bed, and it took Merlin a moment to work out why. 

This was no cool, quiet morning with drapes and eyes closed, where Merlin did not have to think too hard about what Arthur thought of him, or what he imagined when he spent into Merlin's hand. 

This was bright sunshine and nervous sweat and all of Arthur's focus centred on the nape of his neck, pressing his open mouth against it, pushing his nose into his hair. This was them both saying, _I see you, I see you and I know._

Merlin swallowed. "Arthur?" 

"Hmm?"

"Can I, then? Put my mouth on you, do all the things others do – whether whores or lovers, I don’t care."

Arthur stilled. "Tell me, what do you know of either, apart from what you've heard round a campfire? Or seen in a book?"

"This, mainly," Merlin admitted, pressing his arse back against Arthur's groin. "And I have… dreams. About you."

"Ah."

"Ah?" Merlin tried to turn around to see Arthur's expression, but Arthur held him fast, caging him with his arms. Then he began walking backwards and Merlin had no choice but to go with. 

"That explains it." 

"Explains what?"

"Why you're so useless – " Arthur half-dragged, half-tossed Merlin onto the bed, then stood and began tugging off one of his boots. " – at the subtleties of the thing. The _etiquette._ "

Merlin watched, dumbstruck, as Arthur tossed the boot on the floor and started on the other. His shirt had got rucked up in the tussle and snagged round his jutting cock. It should have been laughable, but all Merlin could think of was that night in the forest, of seeing that same cock bulging out of the simple homespun and realising how badly he wanted to nose up to it like a lamb to a teat.

"Arthur – "

"Pay attention, Merlin. I'm trying to teach you a lesson." Arthur tossed Merlin's other boot over his shoulder, peeled down the thick woollen socks that he wore even in summer and sent them sailing after. 

" _Lovers_ go to bed naked." Arthur paused to strip off his own shirt. He arched a brow as he indicated the bared expanse of his chest and belly, then clambered onto the bed and went to work on Merlin's trousers and braies, yanking the former down his thighs, untying the cord on the latter, then lunging forward to tackle Merlin – who'd propped himself up on his elbows for a better view – back onto the mattress.

He unfastened Merlin's belt, slid his tunic up to his armpits and buried his face in one with a little grunt.

"What are you – "

Arthur inhaled deeply, then lifted his head.

" _Lovers_ take care to keep themselves clean and sweet-smelling – really, Merlin, when was the last time you had a proper bath?" He smiled, a private, smug thing, and settled himself so he was straddling Merlin's bare thighs. As he did so, his ring grazed a nipple and Merlin bucked involuntarily, shocked at the intense spark and throb, not just in his chest, but down between his legs.

Arthur's smile faded. Slowly, he slid his left hand back and forth, deliberately catching his ring on Merlin's nipple. He watched the response with widening eyes. He pulled Merlin's cock fully free of his braies and did it again, this time following the hard rub of metal with a sharp pinch. 

Merlin wasn't sure which of one them gasped louder.

Their eyes met, and it was too much, too close. Merlin wanted to shut his eyes – to retreat – but forced himself to keep them open, staring at Arthur's mouth instead.

"Lovers kiss?" he said, his voice barely there.

Arthur sucked in a noisy breath, murmuring something Merlin didn't catch as he lifted a hand to Merlin's lips. He touched them, first with the backs of his fingers, then the fleshy pad of his thumb. 

Then he pounced, covering Merlin, bearing down, nudging a thigh as best he could between Merlin's trapped legs and rolling them both to their sides.

Arthur's mouth tasted sour and Merlin didn’t care. He knew how to probe with his tongue, but not how to give way, and Merlin didn’t care. They both had too many teeth, too much spit and hurry and _wanting_ but Merlin didn’t care because this – this felt _right._ It felt right down to his very magic, soothed the nervous thrum and itch he'd been feeling and redirected it all into ordinary, physical cravings. 

They kissed until their mouths were tacky with it, until Merlin's lips felt fizzy and bruised and he was breathing so hard that his belly pushed against Arthur's cock on every inhale. He wanted to ask why they hadn't done this before, but before he could, Arthur made that impatient, back-of-throat humming sound and pulled back. 

"You're still not naked," he said, frowning at Merlin as if this was somehow _his_ fault. 

By the time that problem was rectified – Arthur looking him over so solemnly, so carefully, jaw tightening as he took in each scar – the question seemed irrelevant. All that mattered was erasing the awkward space between their bodies, hiding himself against Arthur so he wouldn’t have to compare himself and come up wanting. He slotted a leg between Arthur's, tugged at hips and neck until their cocks were trapped between them and Merlin could feel Arthur's chest hair on his nipples.

Their kisses grew more urgent, sloppier due to all the other distractions of skin on skin. Arthur murmured Merlin's name in between until Merlin broke away with an impatient, "Yes?" 

Arthur chuckled, eyes slowly blinking open. "What am I going to do with you?"

Merlin wasn't sure it was a question he was actually supposed to answer, but that had never stopped him before. He put his lips to Arthur's ear.

"My chest, when you pinched it before. Felt like… Um, on my cock. Like a pull, but deeper. Inside." Merlin cringed as he heard the words come out of his mouth, but Arthur didn’t seem to share his embarrassment.

He pulled away, but only so he could get an arm between them and, palm to chest, press Merlin onto his back. Then he loomed in close, roughly scrubbing his knuckles across Merlin's nipples, watching him as he jerked and arched into the touch. 

"Hmm. You do like that," Arthur said. "I wonder…"

He pinched a nipple and the swell of surrounding muscle into a small teat which he licked tentatively – Merlin crying out in pleased surprise – before grinning and settling in for a hard suckle. 

Merlin had never dreamt of this, never thought to fantasise about it, but it was _good._ The hard pinch of teeth and wet, rhythmic rasp of tongue shivered down through his belly, pulling everything taut. The wet smacking sounds Arthur made, the low, ragged hum of him trying breathe with his nose mashed against Merlin's chest reminded him of how Arthur had been in the forest, like an eager animal who did not know his own strength, nor his own appeal. It was a relief to know that _that_ Arthur hadn't been an enchantment, had just been a part of him he normally kept hidden. It was part of Arthur he wanted more of.

He brought a hand to Arthur's head, cradling it, and was rewarded with a pleased-sounding rumble from Arthur's throat. It emboldened him to dig his fingers in, gripping the roots of Arthur's hair and rubbing his scalp as he pressed up into the hot cavern of his mouth.

Arthur gave a final, firm suck before releasing Merlin's nipple. He glanced down, smirking at the sight of Merlin's clenched thighs, his hips grinding little circles up into nothing while his cock leaked onto his belly. 

"Shut up," Merlin mumbled.

"What was that?"

Merlin shook his head and lay back, offering his other nipple. This time he pinched it himself, shamelessly cupping the surrounding muscle and pushing it toward Arthur's wet mouth. 

"Indeed." Arthur said. He latched on with a too-forceful nip of teeth, and Merlin hissed, yanking hard on his hair. Arthur glared up at Merlin, then relented, laving his nipple with the flat of his tongue.

After a moment, Merlin closed his eyes, letting himself sink into it once more – the filthy wet sounds, the sharp burst of pleasure in his chest and the echoing tug in his groin, the feeling that if he squeezed his muscles and rolled his hips just _so,_ he could ride this wave until it – oh. _Oh._

"Merlin," Arthur said hoarsely, pulling off. "Did you really just – gah!"

Merlin felt the hand skid through the mess on his belly. He blinked up at Arthur and saw him staring, saw the moment he went from surprised and offended to _intrigued,_ sitting back on his haunches and bringing his hand near his nose.

Merlin smiled. "How'm I?" 

Arthur sniffed, flicked out his tongue to taste, and shrugged. Then, locking eyes with Merlin, he scraped the remaining mess from his belly and chest and smeared it over his own cock.

"Why don't you tell me, if you're so filthy and eager."

Merlin goggled at him. "You…"

As soon as he could move his limbs, Merlin sat up, scooted forward and pushed at Arthur's chest, trying to get him to lie back. It was a bit like wrestling a friendly drunk, Arthur pretending he didn't know what Merlin was after, twisting away or surging forward, wrapping his arms round him and sucking bruising kisses onto his shoulders.

After wrenching free of one such embrace, Merlin backed off, all the way up to the head of the bed. He knelt, panting and said, "Do you _not_ want me to suck your cock then, sire – or do you want me to strap you to the bed and take you by force? Because if it's only grappling practice you’re after, I'm sure there are plenty of young knights willing to indulge you down in the yard."

Merlin had been prepared to be scoffed at, even cuffed round the ears. So when Arthur merely stared, a deep flush spreading across his cheeks, Merlin temporarily forgot how to breathe.

"Is that what you dream of?" Arthur said. "Having me at your mercy?"

"No, I – " Merlin began. He shook his head, looking down.

"What then?"

Merlin eyed his own lean thighs and bony knees, his skin so pale he could see the veins showing through wherever it wasn't covered by coarse dark hair. His cock was limp but still the colour of a bruise, and his nipples were swollen and red, like a bitch hound after nursing. He thought he could see the marks made by Arthur's teeth.

"Just you," he said. "Wanting me. Wanting _me,_ not just… " He glanced up, saw Arthur studying him with an odd, frustrated expression. "Not just indulging me or letting me touch you for the relief it brings, but actually wanting it, wanting _this._ " Merlin gestured at himself.

"Merlin!" 

He started, head snapping up.

"Shut up and come here, you complete – " Arthur settled himself on his back, drawing his legs partway up and spreading them, exposing himself to Merlin's gaze. Merlin saw the involuntary twitch of his cock, one ball then the other tightening in a slow roll beneath the lightly furred, plum-coloured skin.

"Just come _here,_ would you?" Arthur jerked his head in a familiar gesture.

"What for?"

"So I can slap your arse and see if it improves your wits – honestly, Merlin, do you think I take pleasure with you as a matter of convenience? I could have my pick, from Cornwall to Rheged, and you know it."

Mouth dry, Merlin crawled forward. "I think I'm one of the few people that you trust though." 

"True. So?"

"I think that is important to you. You find it hard to be intimate with people you don't trust, no matter how attractive or strategic they are, so I think if you had someone you trusted, even if you _weren't_ attracted to them, it would be easier for – "

Arthur sat up, grabbed Merlin by the arms and yanked him down on top of him, laughing. "Merlin, that is ridiculous. By that logic I should be bedding any one of my knights… or Gaius."

"But – "

"No." Arthur slid his hands up to Merlin's face and pulled him in for a savage kiss. "I won't discuss this anymore. You are free to go if you doubt my sincerity. Otherwise I think you should stop talking, take that pretty mouth of yours and do what you will, see how well I 'suffer' your touch."

***

Merlin nearly gagged on the girth of it – Arthur's proud, ruddy cock – and the scent and texture of his own seed was strange. But after pulling off and licking up the excess, all he could smell was Arthur, a thick, heady tang that made his mouth water.

He placed his hands on Arthur's thighs, pushing them wider, then eased himself down in between, on his stomach, until he was face to face with the generous swell of his balls. He parted his lips and blew, watching them retract and soften as before. Then he pressed his face in, licking at them, sucking them into his mouth in turn, working his tongue into all the creases between thigh and sac and down behind, where he tasted ripe and earthy.

He'd nearly been such a fool, spoiling everything, talking himself out of this: Arthur laid out, thighs trembling, breathing like he'd just come from the lists; Arthur's cock seeping clear fluid onto his belly; Arthur gripping the bedclothes and pushing his arse towards Merlin's face. When Merlin glanced up, he saw Arthur staring down at him, eyes gone a bit glassy, and felt a strange sort of pride. He scooted up and licked his palm, then wrapped it round the shaft of Arthur's cock and began to tug. He pressed his mouth to the tip, like a kiss, letting the movement of his hand smear the liquid all over his lips.

Arthur made a strangled noise and dropped his head back. 

Merlin opened his mouth and, more slowly this time, began to suck. Once he found a rhythm he could sustain, he went back to playing with his free hand, rubbing it everywhere he could reach, from Arthur's belly to down behind his balls, where there was all that smooth, secret skin and the puckered clench he'd got all wet with his spit. Arthur opened his thighs even wider and began to push back whenever Merlin's fingers grazed his hole, so he lingered there, rubbing more and more firmly until – at the shocking heat and pressure – he realised he was pressing just the tiniest bit _in_ and quickly pulled his hand away.

Arthur sucked in a harsh breath. "No, it's... Put it back."

Merlin pulled his mouth off Arthur's cock and, still pumping the shaft, said, "What was that?"

Arthur pushed himself up onto his elbows and glared down at him, cheeks a mess of colour. "For the love of – spit on your finger and put it up my arse! Slowly. There's a… an organ there that makes everything – "

"Spark." Merlin grinned. He might not be very experienced when it came to partners, but he'd discovered the joys of that little bump years back. It had almost made up for all of Gaius' droning anatomy lectures. He cleared his throat and spat, then worked his hand back down.

"Not the word I would have chosen, Merlin, but essentially ye– _ah!_ Yes. Mmm, that's it." 

It was different from this angle, but it didn't take long for Merlin to orient himself, to make little coaxing motions along the top wall of the tight, velvet channel until he found what he was looking for. He stroked it with the pad of his finger, watching Arthur's eyelids droop and mouth fall open. 

Merlin had barely got Arthur's cockhead back in his mouth and resumed sucking when his release shuddered through him. He bellowed, kicking out with one leg; Merlin heard a soft _whump_ as a bolster hit the floor. 

Merlin swallowed the first burst of pungent fluid as a reflex more than anything, but he kept sucking and swallowing, kept stroking the little gland until Arthur's cock stopped pulsing against his tongue and all he could taste was damp, salty skin.

He let Arthur's cock slip from his mouth and withdrew his finger in a reverse of his earlier actions, rubbing the rim of the small hole and along the crease, then gently cradling his balls. Arthur had gone completely lax, his heavy breathing and thundering heartbeat the only signs he was yet conscious.

"Arthur?" Merlin didn't recognise his own voice. It sounded hoarse from disuse, or aged, like Dragoon's, which was wholly disturbing given the context.

Arthur groaned. He reached down, easing Merlin's hands away from his balls. "I think you've – "

A heavy knock sounded on the door.

"Is everything all right, sire?"

It was Leon. Arthur sat up, looking dazedly at Merlin for a brief moment before calling out, "Yes, why?"

"There have been reports of – " There was a brief pause, murmurs. "Noises, sire. Rattling. A crash. Er, shouting?"

Arthur rubbed a hand over his face. Merlin could see him smiling through the spread of his fingers. He looked over his shoulder.

"Merlin and I were having a slight disagreement. Over my… speeches. To the Druids. All sorted now."

They heard Leon chuckle. "Is he still in one piece?" Arthur looked back at Merlin expectantly.

"Mostly," Merlin croaked. Arthur gave his shoulder a sharp nudge with one knee. "Never better!" he sang out, still sounding to his own ears like he'd been gargling with acid.

Leon laughed outright. "Well then, I'll leave you to it. But I'm also to tell you that the patrol has returned with reports that the Druids are on the move and will be arriving early. By mid-day tomorrow, at the latest."

"Damn." Arthur leapt off the bed and began pacing, running his hands through his hair.

"Arthur, what is it?"

"I thought we'd have more time."

"More time for what?"

Arthur shot Merlin a bleak look, then shook his head. "Never mind. We'd best get dressed. Which reminds me. Did Gwen speak to you about the robes?"

Merlin scrambled off the bed and took hold of Arthur's shoulders. "Yes, and I'll tell you the same as I told her: I'm comfortable as I am. Arthur, more time for what?"

"Not now, Merlin." He glanced down at Merlin's hands on him, wrinkling his nose. "And go wash before you serve anyone food with those hands."

Stung, Merlin pulled his hands away. Surely they weren't going to go back to this? In public, of course, but not here, behind closed doors. Not while they were both still bare and standing before one another – Arthur barely recovered from his pleasure and Merlin plainly wearing his marks. It wasn't right.

Arthur began to turn away and Merlin's hand shot out, grabbing his shoulder. "Arthur, wait." He darted in for a kiss, and was reassured by how easily, how eagerly Arthur went along, plunging his hands into Merlin's hair.

"I could make you tell me, you know," he said as he withdrew, waggling the fingers of the offending hand in front of Arthur's nose. He'd meant it in ordinary jest, teasing Arthur for being so squeamish about his own scent, but he saw his mistake in an instant.

Arthur's eyes narrowed. He reeled back as if he'd been struck a blow.

"No, Arthur, I didn't mean it like – "

"Get out." 

"It was a joke, a stupid joke about my finger having been… Arthur, I swear, I'd never use magic to – "

"Unless it's for my own good, isn’t that right, Merlin?" Arthur took a step forward, tapping a finger to his temple, his mouth twisted in an ugly shape. "Oh, what, you thought I didn’t know?"

Merlin gaped at him. 

"Tell me, did you intend to turn me into a witless clown, or are you just shabby with the details of spells, same as with everything else."

"You've remembered then." Merlin bowed his head and fisted his hands at his sides. "When? How?"

"I remember _nothing,"_ Arthur said bitterly, turning away and stalking over to his wardrobe. "Nothing but a gap in time, an odd blur, impossible dreams."

Merlin looked up, watching forlornly as Arthur yanked the wardrobe door open and pulled out a fresh shirt, a rich, red one, newly made. A king's shirt.

 _Don't,_ he wanted to say. _Not yet._

"But there were witnesses, Merlin. Percival, Elyan, even Tristan. Did you think I wouldn't ask questions when I kept hearing tales of how strangely I'd acted that day?"

" _Gaius_ told you?"

Arthur laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. He tugged the shirt over his head and strode back to where Merlin was standing. 

"I know he knows more that he tells, but Gaius sees you as his son. I'd never ask him to betray you. You should know that."

"Then who?"

Arthur gripped the back of Merlin's neck and leaned in, the gesture setting off all sorts of conflicting sensations as his body didn’t know whether to prepare for violence or kissing.

"Do you remember the night you told me who your real father was, explained how Agravaine's men were defeated? And I asked you to summon – "

"Kilgharrah," Merlin whispered. "Oh no."

"Oh, yes. When you left us, it was the first thing he said – that he could _smell_ it on me, your magic. Had a great laugh over it, too. Do you know how that feels?"

"I do, actually. He's the most – " Merlin broke off as Arthur gave his neck a vicious squeeze. 

"He had all sorts of _hilarious_ tales to tell me, your dragon. Of past and future."

Merlin sighed. "Arthur, Kilgharrah is no friend to you, and he delights in mischief. If you mark his words too closely you'll wind up eating your own tail."

Merlin felt Arthur's grip falter for a moment. Then he clapped both hands round Merlin's ears, bowing his head until their foreheads were pressed together. "Be that as it may, when I later told you that I understood, that I forgave you… 

"It was with that knowledge, Merlin, and I meant it. But it's been no easy thing, and I swear to you, that if you ever, _ever_ rob me of my senses again, I will banish you across the sea and none here shall speak of you unless they wish to share a similar fate. Is that understood?"

Merlin swallowed against the raw, wet lump in his throat. "Yes, sire," he whispered.

"No, in this I want your word as – "

"Yes, Arthur," Merlin said, surging forward, wanting to kiss his cheek, his brow, but Arthur pushed him away. He stood, breathing heavily and staring at Merlin with an unreadable expression. He shook his head.

"There are times, Merlin, when I'd swear you had me under an enchantment still." His eyes travelled slowly down the length of Merlin's body, and Merlin had never thought an entire body could blush, could _yearn_ towards something so, but that was how it felt. He had to command his feet to remain where they were. His cock, however, would not be ruled, and began to swell anew.

Arthur's eyes widened. "Get dressed and go. Now. There is much to do before our guests arrive."

"Arthur – "

" _Now._ "

Merlin sighed. "Very well, sire."

He held his tongue as he gathered his clothing and dressed, but before he unbolted the door he paused, saying, "What don't we have time for?"

"Out!"

As soon as Merlin had washed up and put something in his stomach, he filled a skin with water, told Gaius he would be gone until supper, and set out to find a suitable spot in which to have a long chat with a dragon.

* * *

That evening and all the next morning, Merlin found it nearly impossible to serve Arthur. To begin with, the entire castle was in a state over the impending arrival of the Druids and the news that Arthur meant to formally renounce Camelot's ban on magic. The scene at the well was an absolute melee, and the kitchens were turning out more gossip than food fit for eating. More than once Cook rounded on him with a floury finger or hot ladle, screeching, "I'll not have them in my kitchen, do you hear me, boy? You tell him that from me!"

Then there was the fact that Merlin could not look at Arthur without wanting to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, kiss him, call him a fool – a noble-hearted one, but a fool nonetheless. Merlin knew, now, what Kilgharrah had told him, and it hadn't taken him long to guess what Arthur had made of it. 

And yes, perhaps he, too, was a fool, for he knew Arthur's capacities both for self-doubt and self-sacrifice better than most, and should have noted the signs. However, _unlike_ Kilgharrah, Merlin thought he'd made himself painfully clear when he'd explained the part about their shared destiny.

He tried seeking Gwen out, to see if she knew the details of whatever nonsense Arthur was planning for the Druids' benefit, but she was always surrounded by other people. All he got for his pains was a reminder that the seamstress would deliver his new robes to his room, and a plea to just "put them on and wear them with a smile, Merlin" as the woman who'd done the embroidery was a friend, and had sacrificed skin off her fingers getting them ready a day early. 

Next he tried various knights, but those that could be found met Merlin's queries with blank, friendly smiles, which meant either that they knew nothing, or that Arthur had ordered their silence. 

"Has Arthur said anything to you recently, about me?" he asked Gaius over their morning porridge. 

"Hmph! Quite the opposite. I've been asking _him_ when he intends doing something about clearing out the west tower and giving you some research space of your own – you do have an unfortunate history with my glassware, my boy – and all I get is a face like a sick cow and a change of subject."

"Oh?"

"Yes, and when I ask after his health, how he's faring with the dream-riding and so forth, he turns an alarming shade of pink and walks away. Why, what've you done now?"

 _Started putting your anatomy lessons to their proper use,_ Merlin thought. But all he said was, "Nothing that I know of," and told Gaius to go on ahead to the throne room, that he'd take care of the washing up. He was tickled by the image of Arthur blushing over him, but that he'd evidently resigned himself to Merlin's departure? That would never do.

He played along though, taking a proper bath and combing his hair as requested, keeping himself tucked away in the tower and ignoring the increasing burble of Druid mind-speak until he was sent for. It was only when he donned the robes – far too hot for the time of year, but not much different from those he wore as Dragoon, apart from the embroidery – that the solution came to him.

He thanked the boy who came for him, one of the new pages, and offered him a coin to delay himself before he reported back, and yet another if he'd pass on a message to the king.

"Tell him," he said, scratching his chin, "that Emrys had a difficult journey getting here, and is not as young as he once was. But he will be there as promised, where he belongs."

* * *

It was the longest walk of Merlin's life, that distance between door and throne, all eyes on him while the only ones he cared for were walled away behind the mask of office. Long, too, as his staff was no mere prop – ageing did terrible things to one's joints.

But when he reached the dais Merlin saw the light in Arthur's eyes, the bemused quirk of his lips. As the afternoon wore on, speech by speech and introduction after introduction, his expression grew merrier – especially after the dozen or so young women who'd obviously been brought as potential matches for the mighty Emrys more or less laughed in Merlin's face and asked his blessing in finding proper husbands this harvest season. The sauciest of the lot gave his beard a tug while mind-speaking, _Apologies, Emrys, the elders mean no offense. They did not see that you had already chosen him in this as well._

 _Neither did he,_ Merlin replied, and accidentally-on-purpose thwacked Arthur's shin with his staff. _But he is learning._

Arthur winced. "I could have your head for that, you know," he said out the side of his mouth as the woman retreated.

Merlin leaned in under the guise of being hard of hearing, said, "What was that, young man?" then whispered, "I'd much prefer you took something else." 

It was good like this, he thought, making Arthur spit up his wine, cracking bawdy jokes that kept the shadows from his face and had every man and woman in the place gazing at him with fond admiration.

Later, he would explain that Emrys wasn't so much a job or a title but an idea, a power whose time had come only because there were mortal hands and mortal hearts – only because there was a leader like _Arthur_ – prepared to recognise it and see Albion made real. 

Later, he would explain that though what Kilgharrah had said was technically correct – that Emrys belonged to no man, nor woman either – that did not mean he wasn't free to _choose_ one if he so wished, and that being destined for 'his own kind' could mean peasants or clumsy people with dark hair or anyone with a cock, for that matter, just as well as Druids and other magic users, and hadn't Merlin warned Arthur about listening to the dragon?

Later, he would present himself as lovers should – perhaps not sweet-smelling, after spending much of the day as an old man, sitting around on his arse – but entirely naked, and then he would stop trying to explain in words, as Arthur was at his core a man of action. 

Merlin could tell him that he wasn't leaving a thousand times in a thousand different ways – make him promises, confess what lay in his heart – but Arthur had heard such words before, and he'd been betrayed by those who'd spoken them.

No, the only thing to be done, Merlin realised, was to grab Arthur, to hold him – to _stay._

To keep showing him with eager hands, willing body, and all the magic he possessed that Kilgharrah's words – _"You will have no sons, Arthur. No daughters. Only what you and Emrys will build together"_ – were not dour prophecy condemning him to solitude, but merely a dragon thinking he was being clever.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Some of Arthur's remembered dialogue is quoted directly from episode 412: The Sword in the Stone (Part One).  
> Camelot was shown celebrating Beltane (May day/beginning of summer) in ep 412, and this is set in the months directly after, so I figured the next big occasion would be Lammas/Lughnasadh (festival of the wheat harvest/first harvest festival, celebrated around the first of August).  
>  _Ars Amatoria_ 'The Art of Love' is real and by Ovid.  
>  _Ars Aremorica_ is neither, as far as I know (Aremorica/Armorica is an ancient name for a coastal part of Gaul).  
>  Geoffrey refuses to give me a proper reference for his woodcuts, but Merlin knows where he hides them.


End file.
